Don't Choose Her
by xHalfBloodPrincess
Summary: A oneshot about a mother reflecting back on her first Reaping Day and preparing for her 12-year-old daughter's first Reaping Day. Not a very exciting summary, I know. R&R!


**Hey everyone :) This is my first THG fanfic, it's a quick oneshot and basically just fluff about a mother hoping that her daughter doesn't get chosen on Reaping Day. Hope you enjoy it :) Please R&R!**

The room is almost silent. The only sound comes from my daughter Bluebell's nose as she breathes slowly and softly in her unconscious state.

Moonlight shines in through the pale coloured curtains, and casts a somewhat magical glow across my little girl's already snow-white face.

She is sleeping unexpectedly peacefully. I lay beside her and gently run my fingers through my baby's thick chocolate brown hair, which is not unlike my own.

I always knew this would be a sleepless night for me, but I am grateful that Bluebell is managing to get some rest. I was expecting there to be tears. Tantrums. I was preparing for Bluebell to be sleeping in my bed, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, screaming in terror into my shirt.

But she's not. Instead, she's snuggled up in her own bed. There are no tissues concealed in her hands, so I know she hasn't been crying. She isn't even clutching a cuddly toy. She's being brave. My big brave girl. My big brave twelve-year-old girl.

I hear the town hall clock chime midnight. I take a deep breath. This is it. The day I've been dreading ever since I first held Bluebell in my arms twelve years ago. Her first Reaping Day.

I remember the night before my first Reaping Day. I didn't sleep a wink. Instead, I cried hysterically and hugged my older brother Alfie close all night long. This would be Alfie's final Reaping Day. It was a bittersweet blessing for my parents, as their son was so very close to being safe forever, yet their daughter was just beginning the seven years of agonizing hell that every child across Panem was subjected to.

I'll never forget standing in front of that giant podium, amongst the thousands of other children of District 12, my palms sweating, my heart racing. Avoiding eye contact with my mother and father who stood nervously at the edge of the square, as I was certain to start crying if I looked at them. Praying, even though I did not believe in any God, hoping desperately that I would not be selected and forced to take part in the torturous contest known as The Hunger Games. I closed my eyes as Effie Trinket dipped her hand into the glass bowl of girls' names, lifted out a slip of paper and began to unfold it. _Please don't let it be me, please don't let it be me, please don't let it be me..._

Thankfully, Effie did not call my name, and Alfie was not selected to be the male tribute for District 12 either. My parents sighed with relief. Alfie wiped the sweat from his brow – that was it! He had made it! At eighteen years old, he had just made it through his seventh and final Reaping Day, without once having his name drawn from the boys' bowl and risking his life in that frightful killing match. I was overjoyed – I burst into tears of happiness. My brother was safe now, and so was I for at least another year.

The parties that night were extraordinary. Music blaring in the streets until sunrise, decorations hanging from every house, lamppost and street sign, fireworks lighting up the sky in a rainbow of colours, everyone hugging and dancing and cheering. But I knew that two families in District 12, and 22 other families from across Panem, would not be joining in with the celebrations that night. They would be crying themselves to sleep, being sick with worry, wondering if the tribute they loved so dearly would be okay, or even if they would ever see them again.

I wonder what tonight will be like. Will Bluebell and I be enjoying the spectacular festivities together, celebrating her safety for another year? Or will I be curled up on the couch in the empty house, crying uncontrollably into Bluebell's clothes, while my little girl sits imprisoned on a train, whisking her away to the Capitol to prepare for training?

I watch Bluebell as she lies still and calm. She isn't even having nightmares.

I try to push my negative thoughts aside. If Bluebell isn't scared, I can't show her I'm concerned. I have to be strong, so she knows everything will be okay.

I take another deep breath and hear Effie Trinket's posh, English voice in my head. '_Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour.'_

May the odds be ever in your favour. The trademark slogan of The Hunger Games.

I try to be realistic. The odds _are _in Bluebell's favour. Her name has only been entered into that bowl once. Fair enough, next year, when she's 13, it will be entered twice. And the year after, when she's 14, it will be entered three times. But I can't afford to think like that right now. I have to focus on the present, on this afternoon. I have to make it through the next few hours as composed and as relaxed as possible, for Bluebell's sake. And I can't do that if I'm worrying about future Reaping Days, when we haven't even got this one over with yet.

I forbade her to take out any tesserae. She wanted to so badly, bless her little heart. She's a smart girl. She knows money's tight, but I told her that her life was more important than a little extra grain and oil.

So her name has only been entered once. She is one name in thousands. And plus, I bet lots of girls have had their names entered more times in exchange for the supplies the Capitol offered. During my Reaping years, I knew people who had their name entered an additional ten times, sometimes stretching to 20 or possibly even 30 or 40 times if they had ill parents and lots of hungry siblings to look after. Her chances are good.

I chant this to myself, hoping that somehow it will help it sink in, while I continue to stroke Bluebell's luscious thick hair.

I smile slightly. _She's a fighter_, I say inside my head. Although Bluebell looks like a princess, she's as tough as old boots. She never cried when she fell over in the playground... paper cuts, blisters and splinters do not bother her in the slightest... she's the fastest runner and swimmer in her class, and she can climb a tree in a matter of seconds...

But she can't survive in the wilderness on her own for two weeks, whilst trying to avoid being murdered by 23 people. She can't fish or shoot, and I doubt she even knows how to make a fire or set up snares. She might be able to take out a couple of the younger, weaker tributes, but she'd have no chance against the seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, or the Career Tributes who've been training for the Games since the day they could walk.

I shudder and let out a small gasp as the image of my tiny, precious, vulnerable Bluebell being stabbed in the back by a tall, strong, muscular eighteen-year-old boy infects my brain. She lets out a feeble scream and blood spurts out of her mouth as if her throat is a fountain, and her legs give up on her, causing her to slump to the ground, dead.

My eyes prickle with tears as I lean forward and wrap my arm around Bluebell's delicate little body. I kiss her head and whisper in her ear.

"It's okay, sweetheart, mummy's here..."

I wonder why I am saying this to her, as it was me who was terrified by the horrible vision, not Bluebell.

I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders as my eyes realise the first few tears. If I'm going to cry, I should at least do it now while she's asleep, so she can't see how much pain I'm in.

I hold my daughter's body close to my own as tears flow freely down my face and on to my shirt, making it damp. _Please don't take her away from me_, I plead silently to no one in particular. _Please don't take my only baby away from me... my precious little girl... _I take a third deep breath. _Please don't choose her..._


End file.
